


Gasoline

by thescariestadverbs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Assassins, Brainwashing, Dark, Drug Use, Human Castiel, M/M, Mind Control, Murder, Torture, Violence, gradual story build, graphic depictions of death and murder, inspired by the series Weiss Kreuz, killers, long fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescariestadverbs/pseuds/thescariestadverbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It never ceases to amaze Dean, and maybe Sam too, that Cas can actually look bored as they get ready to kill someone." </p><p>---<br/>We had planned to use this idea for the next DeanCas Big Bang, but since we came up with another idea, we decided to go ahead with this project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> If you are uncomfortable with the depiction of graphic violence, torture, or major character death, this work may not be for you.

 

 

> _“I'm living in an age_
> 
> _That calls darkness light.”_  

The sun hovers over the horizon, casting the little flower shop, Belle Fleur, in a fuzzy orange glow. Dean Winchester leans over the counter. He lazily thumbs a wad of twenties from the register. Glancing at the clock, he counts the minutes, watches as the 3 morphs into a four and the clock reads 7:54PM. He takes a deep breath and slides the money into its drawer. 

Dean would never describe himself as a patient kind of guy. His adrenaline is building and churning in his stomach. The clock ticks by, 7:55PM. A bird glides by the sun cast window. 7:56PM. It’s not nerves, he most certainly knows that. He’s been working jobs like these for so long that he no longer wastes time feeling nervous. For Hell’s sake, he’s Dean Winchester after all, and what he does, he excels at. He would never be one of those people aimlessly floating through life trying to find their purpose. He knew his. He was everything but born knowing his. So no, it wasn’t nerves. 

7:57PM. 

Dean glances around the shop impatiently. He could wash the floor, maybe sweep up all the dirt dropped from changing planters and the dry leaves from Cast sloppily deadheading the Azaleas. God knows he’ll hear about it tomorrow if he leaves all the cleaning for tomorrow. But he isn’t really one for floor washing, especially on mission days. If it were up to Dean, there would be a rule against floor washing on mission days. 

7:58PM. 

The Belle Fleur is practically Dean’s second home. Hell, it could probably serve as his life’s mainstay he has spent so much time cooped up in the little fish bowl. The shop is a simple enough place. A wide-open space with shelves of plants and flowers at each of the windows. The cold room, where they kept the cut flowers, is just to his left. It’s a little more cramped and crowded than it probably should be, but even from the counter he can see it bursting with life. The door to his right leads to the backroom with a small office space and two sets of stairs leading up to their apartments. It branches off into a basement entryway, down to, well, where the real work happens. 

Dean wouldn’t call the flower shop the best cover, but it’s definitely one of the more comfortable ones he’s had. 

The bell above the door clangs at 7:59PM and a group of girls from the university down the street roll in. Dean’s irked, but he doesn’t show it. Smiling widely at the girls, he says, “What can I get for you ladies?” 

Fifteen minutes, six pink roses and two phone numbers later, Dean locks the door to the shop and flips the sign to ‘Closed’. He slips into the backroom and takes the stairs two at a time to the apartments above the store. 

“You’re late,” Cas glances up at him from his seat, his legs stretched across the table in their tiny eat-in kitchen. He’s already dressed and leaning back in the chair, casually flipping through a flower-ordering catalogue. 

Cas is always ready an hour before they need to leave. It’s just the way Cas is. He’s patient, steady, dependable. He’s a planner, having every missioned worked out to the last possible second. Dean hates to admit it, bit it’s good to be that organized in their line of work. In and out before anyone even notices they were there. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “We had customers. Not that you came down to help.” 

“Troubling handling a few school girls?” Cas tosses the catalogue onto the table.

“Not at all,” Dean tosses the notepad with the two phone numbers on the table by Cas’s feet.

“Sam’s out back packing the car,” Cas tells him. 

Sam, Dean’s kid brother, rounded of their little trio. 

“Okay,” Dean moves passed Cas and heads into his bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head. He nudges a pile of clothing with his foot and bends to tug a pair of black jeans out from the bottom. He shrugs them on and starts digging through the closet. His mission shirts are tucked in the back. Brand new, black and pristine. It’s almost a shame that they’re pretty much one time use. He tugs one over his head before he reaches down and drags a trunk containing all his mission gear out of the closet. 

The shirts may be disposable, but the rest of his gear is anything but. In the beginning, Dean had to save two missions worth of cheques for the motorcycle boots he laces up with absolute precision. They aren’t allowed to actually ride motorcycles to missions, too noisy, but he liked the look of them more than anything. They weren’t exactly standard issue in their line of work either. In fact, if Morse ever saw them she’d have a fit. Motorcycle boots weren’t exactly known for their ninja-like qualities.

There’s a soft knock at the door and Cas enters, “Ready?”

“Almost,” Dean answers, snapping the buttons of his jeans. 

Cas reaches into the closet passed Dean’s shirts to find the younger man’s mission jacket, the one that cost almost as much as his car. He holds it out and almost ritualistically slides it over Dean’s shoulders. It’s soft and worn, but Dean’s taken good care of it. When he gets home tonight he will slide it off and spend hours scouring it for blood.

 He could never sleep after missions anyway, high on adrenaline and blood. 

Cas brushes a hand across the shoulder to smooth out the leather. He turns Dean so they are face to face and reaches to fix the collar while Dean snaps the sleeves. They move as though they’ve shared this intimate moment a thousand times, even if it’s only the second, maybe. 

Holding Dean’s gaze, Cas slides his hand down Dean’s arm and passes him the knife hostler from the trunk. Dean flashes him a wide grin before pulling out the knife to examine it, feeling the weight as he turns it over in his hand. It’s as clean as his jacket, gleaming in the muted bedroom light.

“Dean,” he hears Sam call out as he straps his holster to his thigh. “Dean, we have to go!”

“Coming,” he says as Cas takes the knife and glides it back into its holster. He pushes the trunk haphazardly back into the closet and Cas makes his move to leave, sneaking back out into their shared hallway.

Dean looks around his room one last time. It’s military clean aside from the pile of laundry - was it his week again? He never could remember – and Sam’s blanket tucked into the corner of the bed. He takes a deep breath and flicks off the lights, shuts the door and heads out to meet his team.

Sam is waiting for them in the kitchen. He looks pale. Sam always looks pale before a mission. Dean isn’t sure if it’s the boy’s nerves or just the all black ensemble washing him out. Cas, on the other hand, is the epitome of calm. The quiet man is leaning back against the refrigerator and picking at the sleeve of his trench coat. It never ceases to amaze Dean, and maybe Sam too, that Cas can actually look bored as they ready to kill someone.

They don’t talk as they head down to the car, it’s an unwritten rule cut into their routine. Dean always drives. Sam usually sits shotgun, and Cas goes over the plan from the back seat. They head to their respective doors and Dean tugs the cover off. It isn’t just any car, of course. It’s the one of the few things Sam and Dean have from before all this. Dean had taken a beating or two for insisting they kept his father’s Impala in the family, but he’d won them over eventually. It had come with rules though, of course. The company loved their rules.

So the Impala was for missions only.

They didn’t know the target. Not that this was a big surprise. They weren’t supposed to know their target. There were to be no conflicts of interest. Paradis would make sure of that. Conflicts of interest lead to drama, lead to changes in the plan, lead to unnecessary cleanup strategies and rumor containment. Conflicts of interest lead to more death and less pay. And if there is one thing everyone could agree on, it was wanting their full pay.

Cas lays out the plans simply. He quizzes them. Does Sam know where to wait? Does Dean know where to stand? Do they know the timeline? Of course they do, it’s not their first rodeo. Dean’s proud to admit, even though Cas hasn’t been around that long, the team works like a well oiled machine. They could anticipate each other’s movements, read each other’s thoughts. They could get in and out without so much of a peep.

They park the Impala a block away. Dean glances around before tossing the keys to Sam, “Thirty-two minutes,” he tells him.

Most of the missions require all three of them, but occasionally they could get away with two and leave Sam in charge of the getaway. Always one man short as far as their employers were concerned but it suited them just fine. Four was a crowd as far as Dean was concerned, even if Paradis preferred teams of four. No one had ever fit in with The Winchesters except for Castiel. The older man never questioned what they went through, he just simply took his place beside them like he’d been there since day one. The long lost Winchester brother.

Dean liked Cas from the beginning. After all, he liked an excuse to keep Sam out of the frying pan, so to speak, as much as he could. And Cas? Cas didn’t mind being in it.

 “Thirty-two,” Sam repeats, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Dean pops the trunk of the Impala and tosses Cas a long thin blade. He tucks a handgun into the waistband of his jeans, you know, just in case. He glances over at Cas who nods. Dean slams the trunk shut. He takes one last look at Sam before falling silently into place behind Cas and they disappear into the shadows.

* * *

 

The rain had started only minutes before the mission started, and they hid like monsters in the dark. The gig was simple, a mantra they told themselves over and over. Cas looks to Dean who smiles back, giving him a thumbs up, the leather of his gloves protesting with the gesture. He follows Dean’s lead when he moves down the slender break in buildings. Dean hooks his biker boots into the rectangle holes of a chain-link fence, and expertly swings his body over to the other side and Cas follows suit.

Sam masterfully mapped out the cameras both inside and out of the target’s building. Plugged into them from the car, and was probably watching them as they unscrewed a conveniently man-sized heat duct to sneak in. The weight of the young boy’s eyes on their backs, protective as ever, follow them through to the main gathering hall. The target, who Cas can see from a gap in the heating duct, is seated near the front of a grand dining hall. A young man in his mid thirties clinking glasses with what he recognizes as the man’s wife. Dean twitches in his peripheral, itching to make eye contact and motion him forward with a two-finger signal. 

Cas uses his elbows to crawl forward. The caked layers of dust lining the inside of the duct muffled the sounds of his boots tapping on the metal as he pulls himself in the direction of their target’s private office. Castiel could imagine the dark thunderheads rumbling above them, and the stream of water cascading off the side of the building and down the windows just outside the ductwork. With each move forward the thin metal sheeting wails with detest, his heavy body most likely making a visible bend for anyone who cared to look. Still, Castiel was small enough to get the task done.

Using a crumpled image, which Sam had managed to scan from court documents, Castiel situates himself. They already knew the fourth level had three main rooms. The third, supposedly beneath him now, was a room the target frequented during banquets with his women on the side, for a little R&R as Dean liked to put it. “Here it is,” Cas’s voice is almost too deep to whisper.

“Be careful,” Sam’s voice cracks through the mic. 

It was a shame, Castiel thinks, the woman had to die tonight as well. But she was just another dark beast according to Paradis. There would be no harm in killing two birds with one stone. So, Castiel clears his mind, leaving only the task at hand to concentrate on. Now was the time.

Castiel slides his goggles over his eyes, lets his fingers graze over the lump of his blade tucked into his sleeve before slamming his fist down on the grate, which gives way easily. He holds the end of the duct edge with one hand, and slides through the hole with an acrobatic twist. Castiel lets himself drop to floor silently. As soon as his feet hit the ground he fingers the spring holding his blade in place to let it free, lets it slip into his grip with practiced ease. He scans the room, nothing but darkness looking back at him. He only needs to wait a few seconds. 

“Parker, your position?”  Dean’s order buzzes the bug in Castiel’s ear, and he resist the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s impatience. Resists the urge to leave his mic silent, but he knows it’s not a possibility. 

“In room 456, W.” He checks his watch, “23:27. Right on time,” he answers. Castiel hears the door click, the sound of the target and his devilish lady friend coming to play. He finds himself snug against the wall, hidden momentarily in the shadows and just out of sight from the entryway.

Cas can feel the flip of the light switch turn his body on, feels his muscles recoiling and readying for the attack. He moves quickly and silently, grabbing the woman by the neck, and squeezes her windpipe as he moves his other hand over her mouth and nose. His forefingers curl towards the palm of his hand as he slowly rings the air from her body as quickly as his can. The target – the man, who Cas recognizes only from a picture, is wide eyed. He’s shocked, and standing still in one place.

Castiel adjusts his grip on the woman, her brightly colored hair blocking his eyesight from the man in front of them. He holds her steady once more by the neck, whispers “I’m sorry” softly into her ear as he jerks her head to side and slides the blade through skin and muscle into a branch of her carotid artery. Blood spurts dramatically across his shoulder and chest. The woman’s body falls heavy in his grasp, so he lets go and lets her sink to the floor.

It will take three minutes for her to die. 

Stepping forward and over the body now, Castiel meets the angry vision of their main target and the muzzle of a chic, silver handgun. He curses himself for letting the woman’s stupid hair get in his face. “Who are you!” the target demands, the gun rattling in his shaking hands. “What do you want?” he cries.

It’s only seconds on the clock before Dean stands fully in the office doorway. No longer needing to hide, and probably thinking Castiel botched the mission, Dean points his Glock 22 in the direction of the target. Outside, the sky grumbles, and lightning flashes as if it were there solely to make Dean’s presence more blockbuster. 

The kid thought he was some kind of metal cowboy.

Castiel’s eyes fall back to the target, grinning at him as the final realization creeps its way across the man’s face. The icy cold grip of Death was there for him. He would die tonight. “You have Hells Bells playing on your headphones too, W? You could’a’ rang,” Castiel spares another glance in Dean’s direction and half a laugh, his gravely voice vibrating off the walls. 

“You were late,” Dean’s lips curl upward in a half smile, keeps his eyes locked on the target.

“Yeah well, the girlfriend was in the way,” Castiel mutters from his place of momentary surrender, his hands still up mockingly. 

“Should have killed him first, and should have done it quicker,” Dean asserts as he moves passed Castiel and closer to the target who drops his own gun in a nervous move to dash out of the way.

Put out by being scolded in front of the target, Castiel simply quips “I do what I have to.”

“I have money,” the target interjects.

“We don’t want your money,” Dean rejects, gesturing the target backwards and to sit with muzzle of his own gun. Dean’s senses are on alert, always ready for the worst. He follows the man, his body echoing every movement like the predator he’s trained to be. Hi muscles sliding under skin and leather like the perfect animal lulling its prey into a hypnotic trance. “We want you to die.” It’s with this statement that Dean takes the man by the shoulder to steady himself, takes his own blade from where it was hidden up between the soft gap of the man’s chin and jaw.

Castiel watches the blade as Dean pushes his weapon through bone, hears the wetness when it pierces the man’s tongue and throat and when the last gasps for life paints blood across Dean’s cheeks. He smells the heady scent of red gold as the blade travels straight through into the targets brain like a skewer all in slow motion until Dean slides it out quickly. He turns to Castiel, regards his teammate seriously and appraises his body for injury.

Satisfied, Dean says, “Let’s get outta here.” 

* * *

 

From the fourth story window, Knight can see the pair of leather clad boys jump the fence, head back into the night and towards their get away car. She drags her fingers over the window pane, thin lips curling into a devious grin as she turns back to her own company. “You let them get away,” she states, glancing out the window once more. 

“Trust me,” Bishop answers in his brisk Irish lilt, “the boys will be back. They have no idea what they’re getting themselves into.”

“Did you see it?” Knight asks expectant and irritated with the vagueness of Bishops retort.

“Of course I saw it you miserable twat,” Bishop scowls, smoothes his hands down the front of his fitted suit. “But we mustn’t let them get in the way. The future must not be disturbed.”

Pawn, a quiet girl no older than seventeen, keeps her eyes on the floor. Her dark hair a mess of swirls falling over her shoulders, and her full lips drawn into a tight line. She peeks up from behind dark lashes, “The little boy will see us coming. He’s been seeing us for days now in those dreams of his.” Pawn draws in on herself before ducking into the shadows of the office room, quietly she speaks once more, “I think they will know soon.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics:   
> I'm living in an age  
> That calls darkness light  
> Though my language is dead  
> Still the shapes fill my head  
> I'm living in an age  
> Whose name I don't know  
> Though the fear keeps me moving  
> Still my heart beats so slow  
> My body is a cage  
> That keeps me from dancing with the one I love  
> But my mind holds the key - Peter Gabriel


End file.
